The other night as the cool autumn night air crept slowly into our rented house my husband and I crawled into bed, nose to nose, talking over the events of the day. The moonlight from the bathroom skylight lit each other faces and our talk soon deflated into gentle, sweet sleepy compliments.

But we ate Taco Bell for dinner and the chicken quesadilla I had lodged in my abdomen shifted, releasing mini-mushroom cloud gas bubble so fast that I didn’t have time to even turn my head. And this is the conversation that followed:

“Oh God, Heather!”
“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”
“Ah man! That’s disgusting!”
…“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”
“Whewww…why’d ya do it?!”
“…It came on so fast; I lost control! I can only imagine what that must have smelled like to you…”
“It wasn’t flowers, I can tell you that!”
“…I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry…”

Ah, sweet pillow talk in the Ackmann household.